


The Changing Wind

by redpantsandjam (fullonzombae)



Series: The AGRA Files [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Awesome Sally Donovan, Character Death, Discussion of Abortion, Divorce, F/M, Gen, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Mary Being a BAMF, Mary's Past, Recovery, Torture, but pain, post-HLV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-27
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-02-06 10:48:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1855291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fullonzombae/pseuds/redpantsandjam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following on from The Art of Letting Go; Seven months have passed since Sherlock left for Eastern Europe, and while John wonders if Sherlock will ever come back, Mary wonders just what it takes to earn John Watson's forgiveness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"I want a divorce."  
  
Mary froze, staring at John as she tried to process his words, Emily balanced cautiously on her hip. As their daughter reached for one of her earrings, Mary gently grasped onto her wrist, redirecting her hand as she narrowed her eyes slightly.  
  
"Yeah. Good morning to you, too." She crossed the kitchen in three short strides, ignoring his words as if they'd never been spoken after all. Stooping to place Emily in her highchair, she pressed a kiss to the blonde tuft of curls that had begun to sprout through, before turning to fill the kettle.  
  
"Are you even listening to me?"  
  
"Where did you put the porridge, John?"  
  
John sighed in mild irritation, moving over to the cupboard and slamming a small box onto the counter. "Divorce, Mary. I'm going to see a lawyer after work."  
  
"Don't be ridiculous John." Mary snatched up the porridge, spooning a little of the powder into Emily's bowl, in the hope that in the time it took the kettle to boil, her husband would see sense.  
  
"Ridiculous. That's what we're calling this, is it?" John snatched up his jacket from the back of the chair in front of him. He stooped to press a kiss to Emily's forehead, finding himself greeted by a small hand batting at his nose. "You be good for Mummy," he whispered quietly, before standing a little taller and looking at Mary. "We'll discuss this tonight."  
  
He didn't wait for her response, grabbing his bag and allowing the door to slam behind him.  
  


* * *

  
Some mornings, Greg found himself more reluctant than ever to leave the comfort of his bed. This morning, he found himself curled around a sleeping Molly Hooper, brushing the hair back from her face as he admired the understated elegance of her features.  
  
The scar that adorned her cheek following her encounter with Jim had faded into a sliver now, and although he knew that in a matter of hours, it would be covered with concealer, the pathologist having taken to wearing make up to cover up the worst of the damage caused by Moriarty. But as she slept, Greg leant down to press a gentle kiss to her cheek, before slipping out of bed and padding through to the kitchen.  
  
The checking of his phone that followed had become almost ritualistic. Seven months on, and he found himself still convinced that one day, soon, his phone would beep again with the urgency of a message from Sherlock. Need for a case. Need for attention. Need for a distraction. But instead, 221b sat empty, and Mycroft's explanations that he would likely return soon had petered out. Now, each time he saw the elder of the Holmes brothers, Mycroft looked tired, the palour sapped from his face. Greg had seen exhaustion, and he had seen sickness. But Mycroft Holmes was somewhere else entirely.  
  
As his phone beeped, Greg almost spilled his coffee as he rushed to read the message, a look of resignation descending over his face as the message flashed across his screen. Sally, with a gently teasing coffee order, and a request that he remembered the milk this time. Typing out a quick reply, he relaxed slightly as he felt Molly's arms wrap around him, leaning back ever so slightly against the woman.  
  
"Thought I might treat you to dinner tonight," he murmured, before turning to kiss her gently, a finger hooking under her chin. He could feel her smiling against his lips, her hands moving to tighten the belt on her dressing gown,  
  
"Beans on toast again?" Her voice lilted with her gentle teasing as she reached for the coffee cup on the side, lifting it to her own lips.  
  
"Nope. Was thinking Angelo's, actually. Thought I'd save your tastebuds."  
  
Molly's laughter rang through his ears, and Greg reached for his keys, pressing one more kiss to her lips as he headed for the front door.  
  
"I'll see you tonight then," she called, before moving over to the sofa, curling up in preparation for a days worth of crap TV. 

* * *

  
"It's been seven months, Mycroft."  
  
One day, John would learn that, no, Mycroft Holmes' office was not on the way to the clinic, and no, he didn't have to climb in every suspicious black car that pulled up outside his house just as he left for work. But he'd been counting the days, and he was sure Sherlock had told him the mission in Eastern Europe would take no longer than six months.  
  
At least, that was what he had said on the tarmac as they said their farewells, all before Moriarty had made his presence known.  
  
Had Sherlock bothered to say goodbye before leaving this time, John would have checked he would be back.  
  
"Seven months since what, John?"  
  
John's fists clenched in his lap as he watched Mycroft close the door, disbelief crossing his features.  
  
"You know exactly what, Mycroft. He was supposed to be back by now."  
  
Mycroft stopped by the desk, pouring two glasses of whiskey, passing one over to the doctor before walking over to the window.  
  
"Correct me if I'm wrong, Doctor Watson, but you didn't even make inquiries as to his absence until he had been gone three months. So. Is your overbearing concern guilt on your part?"  
  
John grit his teeth as he looked up defiantly at the elder Holmes, affronted by the accusation.  
  
"Just because I wasn't there, Mycro..."  
  
"Yes, I'm aware. You had your family life to concern you with. I did warn him not to get involved. But, in answer to your question, we're currently seeking to arrange his return."  
  
"Right. So where is he?"  
  
Silence filled the room, Mycroft glancing down at the brown liquid in his glass as he found himself, for once, lost for words.  
  
"Where is he, Mycroft?"  
  
John rose from his chair, setting his own glass down as he moved towards the other. The silence was unsettling, and experience had told John that a silent Holmes brother usually meant bad news was imminent.   
  
"Please tell me he's still alive."  
  
Mycroft responded by lifting the glass to his lips, swallowing the whiskey down in a single mouthful.  
  
"I can't make any promises, John."  
  


* * *

  
"I'll ask you again, Mr West. Who sent you?"  
  
The sound of a whip crashed through the air, colliding with skin with a resounding crack. The only answer that came from the bedraggled man was a muffled sob as he tried to escape a further lash. This, in itself, was impossible and he tried to fight back the occasional panic that accompanied his bouts of consciousness. His only clear thought was of the pain. Several broken bones. All fingers. Both arms. His right leg, and a fractured cheekbone. And then there was the tissue damage. As he pondered whether this latest wound would scar like so many before, he found his thoughts interrupted by the sound of chains, only to find himself pushed to the floor.  
  
As he laid in a crumpled heap, Sherlock could only serve to work out infrequent fragments of the conversation that surrounded him. "Useless." "Dog." Something about a sedative. Feeling a boot colliding with his ribs, Sherlock cried out, before he found himself rolled onto his back, facing his captors.  
  
"You're no use to us, Mr West," one drawled, a gun aimed at the listless form on the concrete floor. But even upon watching the pathetic lump of a man, he took pleasure in stepping forward and kicking repeatedly at his left leg. Picking up the hammer that laid by his foot, he swung it, satisfied with the cracking of bone and the weak cries of pain that filled the room, echoing as if it was a symphony, and this room his auditorium. Listening to the sobs, he rolled his eyes, turning back to face the intruder, the silent spy, cocking his gun. A smirk curled onto his lips, before the sound of a gunshot echoed through the room.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft makes plans to bring Sherlock home, whilst Sally probes into the shooting at Magnussen Towers.

"I've told you before, Mycroft. I've left everything behind."  
  
Mary set a mug of coffee in front of him, before taking her own seat beside him on the sofa. Resting her chin in her hands, her gaze fixed on the fireplace as the enormity of Mycroft's request weighted upon her.  
  
"And yet, at six months pregnant, you certainly proved your utility to Sherlock," Mycroft said, a forced smile flashing across his face before it disappeared just as quickly. Mary's gaze dropped to Emily who was, at this moment in time, shaking a chime ball with undiluted glee.  
  
"Oh, please, Mycroft. If I hadn't taken Jim and Moran out, John would be dead."  
  
"There's a possibility that Sherlock would have found them a way out. Again. You underestimate him."  
  
Watching Emily, Mycroft's brow furrowed before the creases in his forehead faded and he turned to face Mary.  
  
"I can ensure that taking on this mission will reap rewards for the entire Watson household," he started, the calculating look settling on his features. "Just imagine the opportunities that private school would provide Emily, for example. An exemplary education, social mobility..."  
  
"The art of bribery..."  
  
"Well, it's not on the curriculum, but yes."  
  
Mary groaned, burying her face in her hands.  
  
"Why me, Mycroft? Why the hell are you asking me, of all people to do this?"  
  
Mycroft stood, reaching for his umbrella leaning on it on the hard wood floor.  
  
"Because once you retrieve him, Sherlock will need a familiar face." 

* * *

  
The Yard was quieter than usual when Greg arrived, a tray of steaming coffees in hand. Passing Bradsheet, the latest Detective Inspector to be transferred to London, her coffee, he headed over to Sally's desk, leaning against the wall as he set the tray down. Pulling the lid off his cup, he lifted it to his lips, peering over her shoulder.  
  
"Aren't those Sherlock's medical records?"  
  
Sally jumped, as if she hadn't expected Greg to be behind her, quickly closing down the window and restoring another file.  
  
"Just needed to check something," she muttered, uttering a quick thanks for the coffee as she began typing again. "Where did his brother say he'd gone?"  
  
Greg shrugged, licking the foam from his top lip. "Somewhere in Eastern Europe. Some secret mission or something."  
  
Sally shook her head faintly, before looking up at her colleague. "And that's his punishment for shooting Magnussen?" 

"Keep your voice down," Greg hissed, leaning in closer. "Why? What's it to you?"  
  
Sally shrugged in response, reopening the file and looking up at Greg. "He'd been out of hospital for just over three weeks," she pointed out, a manicured finger on the screen, pointing to the discharge sheet. "Now, I know the Magnussen deal was being dealt with elsewhere, and we're not supposed to know anything about it, but given all the complications he had with his treatment, then why would he go straight after him? In fact, why would he shoot him at all?"  
  
"What the hell are you getting at?"  
  
"Magnussen must have had something on someone Sherlock cares about. Must have. No other explanation for it. So Sherlock's..."  
  
"Where did you even get this stuff?"  
  
"Greg. Are you paying attention?"  
  
Greg narrowed his eyes, looking back at Sally. "Carry on."  
  
"Well. We know Sherlock's holding back on his attacker. He can't have not seen them. So we have to ask why? Must have been someone he knows, else he wouldn't protect them."  
  
"You can't prove this has anything to do with the Magnussen shooting."  
  
"Magnussen would have seen the shooter, too. He would have known who shot Sherlock."  
  
A groan of irritation left Greg's lips as he picked up his coffee and began walking towards his office. As soon as he was out of sight, Sally buried her face in her hands, growling with anger, before hitting the print button on Sherlock's file. 

* * *

  
Tangling her hands in the fabric of her cardigan, Molly watched as her doctor seated himself across from her. The feeling of nausea hadn't subsided, and as she watched him opening her file, her fingers moved to a loose button as some sort of comfort.  
  
"Well, Ms Hooper." A friendly smile in Molly's direction, and Molly found herself bracing herself for the worst. Constant vomiting. Irritability. Lethargy. She knew the signs, she'd seen them in her mother. Letting the button fall from her fingers, she watched the doctor in silence, awaiting his answer.  
  
"We've run the blood tests, and everything's come back normal," he started, reaching into the drawer on his desk and pulling out a diary. "We did, however, find traces of HCG in your bloodstream."  
  
Molly stared at him, disbelief evident on her face, before she shook her head faintly. "But I'm... I'm on the pill," she pointed out, her hand instinctively flying to her stomach. "I... Are you sure?"  
  
"Ms Hooper, you are indeed pregnant." 

* * *

  
The sound of Emily screaming greeted John as he arrived back at the house, and he sighed, bracing himself for the possibility of a crying Mary to accompany the scene that would greet him. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the divorce petition, and sighed, sitting on the step to take a moment to steady himself. It would be a matter of days until the brown envelope from the courts would be in Mary's hands, and a matter of months, provided she agreed, before they were divorced. Pushing the form back into his pocket, he closed his eyes, leaning back against the door.  
  
Suddenly, the sound of Emily crying neared, and the front door was pulled open, sending John toppling backwards and finding himself looking straight up at Mycroft. The elder Holmes held out Emily with outstretched arms, clearing his throat.  
  
"If you wouldn't mind taking your daughter, John. She's more difficult than Sherlock was at this age. Does the crying ever cease?"  
  
John scrambled to his feet, taking Emily and soothing her crying. "Where's Mary?"  
  
"She's otherwise occupied." Mycroft reached for his umbrella, stepping out of the house. Entering Anthea's number on the phone, he turned back to address John. "I can imagine she'll be home by the end of the week. I would recommend you make yourself available."  
  
"That doesn't tell me where she is, Mycroft," John called, not reacting to Emily's pats against his nose.  
  
"That's because you don't need to know."  
  
As Mycroft disappeared, John turned back to Emily, blowing a raspberry against her cheek. "Well, Missy. Looks like it's just me and you. Again." 

* * *

  
"Alright, I'm coming!" Janine fastened her earring as she headed for the front door, checking her watch with a raised eyebrow. As far as she was aware, her date; Gareth from accounts; was 45 minutes early, and hadn't phoned ahead to let her know he'd be early.  
  
Pulling the front door open, she found herself greeted with a more familiar face, however.  
  
"Janine Hawkins? I'm Detective Sergeant Sa..."  
  
"Yes, I know who you are," Janine replied, stepping back to let her inside. "I suppose I can't just leave you out on the doorstep, really."  
  
Sally flashed her a smile and stepped inside, slipping her badge back inside her jacket. "Well. It's certainly different. A big change to London."  
  
Janine turned and picked up her wine, taking a sip. "If this is about Sherlock, I thought everything regarding his shooting was dropped."  
  
Shaking her head, Sally followed Janine into the living room, stealing a glance around the house. Immaculate apart from a stain on the coffee table. Minimalistic. Everything Sally's flat wasn't. "We've reopened the case." A lie, at best, but with Dimmock's help, Sally suspected she'd have the prosecution by the end of the week. Sitting opposite Janine, she took out Janine's statement, setting it down on the table. "See, I've been talking to an old friend of mine. A very good doctor. She's informed me that you were struck from the front."  
  
Janine responded with a large sip of wine in an attempt to steady her nerves.  
  
"Which means, Miss Hawkins, there's no way in hell you didn't see your attacker. Who, unless your security guards let someone else in, is also the person that shot Sherlock Holmes."  
  
"You never liked him. Why all this focus now?"  
  
"This isn't about liking him." Sally leant forward, the warm expression gone from her features, and replaced with a look that told Janine she meant business. "But I need a name, Miss Hawkins, and unless you give me that name, you'll be finding yourself charged with perverting the course of justice. So. Are you ready to start talking?" 

* * *

  
As the gunshot echoed through the room, Sherlock closed his eyes, calmly waiting to greet death.  
  
Instead, he was greeted with a further two gunshots and the sound of three bodies falling to the floor. Then footsteps. Turning his head in the direction of the footsteps, he could make out a faint, shadowy figure who was nearing him, almost silently.  
  
And then came that all familiar voice, and the feeling of a hand cupping his cheek.  
  
"John can't know about this one either, Sherlock. Let's get you home."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sally's investigations continue, whilst Molly has concerns with her news, and Mary has a revelation for John.

"Alright, you wanted me here. What is it?" Andrew Dimmock shifted uncomfortably on his feet as he glanced at the entrance to the cemetary. "Could have come here at a normal hour."  
  
Picking at the lock, Sally grunted an acknowledgement, before relief kicked in as it finally opened. "What. And have Greg follow us down here, preaching how we've got this wrong?" Swinging the gate open, she ushered him into the cemetary, quietly slipping in behind him.  
  
"I still don't understand why we're here," Andrew protested, his torch illuminating the path, only to be greeted with a paper thrust into his hand.  
  
"Mary Morstan's birth certificate. October 19th, 1972. And her death certificate. October 19th, 1972. There was only one baby born with that name in... well. The past fifty years." Taking the torch from Andrew's hand, she moved over to the angel that overlooked the graves of countless children. "Mistakes happen with record keeping all the time. I mean, there's people who's names are recorded incorrectly..."  
  
"But their deaths?" Andrew carried on moving around the headstones, stopping every so often to examine the names, trying to ignore the dates that served as a reminder of how young these children had been. Six years. Thirteen. Two weeks. "But you could always check her health records, right? Banks, things like that."  
  
"I did."  
  
He turned the torch back in Sally's direction, the beam illuminating her features as he awaited an explanation.  
  
"Christ, Andy. Lower the spotlight." A toothy grin as she raised her hand to shield her eyes. "Anyway. Between 1972 and 2009, Mary Morstan didn't exist." She watched as Andrew paced, before coming to rest in front of a simple white headstone.  
  
"Well. Of course she didn't. No parent would have the wrong name put on their child's headstone after all."  
  
Sally jumped off the plinth, taking her place by her colleague's side as she read the engraving. "So. What do we do, boss?"  
  


* * *

  
Everyone has their secrets. This was something of which Greg was painfully aware.  
  
But this was different. It had been 48 hours since Molly had allowed any form of intimacy, pulling away from every attempt at a kiss, a hug, and where their evenings had usually been spent with Molly laid against him, buried in yet another romance novel, she had spent the past two nights appearing distant and sat as far from him as their sofa would allow.  
  
Standing outside the bathroom, he listened to the sound of vomiting, before gently rapping against the door. "Molls?" As if she could see through the door, he held up the glass of peppermint cordial - an old remedy his mother had sworn by. "Molls, open up, love." He was greeted with a momentary silence, before the sound of the lock being slid to one side.  
  
As the door swung open, Molly looked up at him, her eyes red rimmed and teary and Greg felt as if he could melt. "I brought you some peppermint cordial. Mum's old trick. Helps with the stomach," he offered, a sympathetic smile, before Molly pushed past him, curling up on the sofa. Greg looked down at the glass, a feeling of rejection washing over him as he set the glass down on the coffee table.  
  
"Molly, why won't you talk to me?" He crossed his arms, leaning against the wall as he watched her, listless and silent. "Whatever it is, I'm here to help. I mean it." He uncrossed his arms, moving to crouch by the sofa, finally catching her gaze. "Please, Molls. Let me in."  
  
After what felt like a lifetime, Molly looked up at him, her eyes heavy with fear.  
  
"Greg. I'm pregnant."  
  


* * *

  
The sound of the monitor filled the room as Mary watched Sherlock in silence, her fingers curled around his hand in the vain hope for some response. She had known the diagnosis long before the helicopter had landed back in England.  
  
Multiple broken ribs.  
  
All limbs in varying state of fracture.  
  
Extensive internal bleeding.  
  
Septic shock.  
  
He had remained barely conscious as they waited for Mycroft's surgeons to arrive, listening to Mary's tales about Emily and how she would be crawling any time soon. How Emily looked more like her father than she did her mother. And as the sedation took hold, dragging Sherlock into the cocoon of a coma, she silently prayed that he would pull through, knowing the alternative may just kill John.  
  
Hours afterwards, she found herself sitting beside Sherlock, thumbing through an old copy of Peter Pan. although she'd given up reading moments before. Placing the book on the bedside table, she leaned down, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "I should get home to John and Emily. Time to put the act back on," she whispered, brushing a curl back from Sherlock's brow. "Hurry back, Sherlock. For John."  
  
The house stood almost silent as Mary returned, and had it not been for the flickering of the television screen reflecting through to the hallway, she might have believed John had already headed up to bed. Shucking off her coat, she walked into the living room, to find John and Emily sat together on the sofa, and turned her attention to the screen.  
She had seen this DVD what felt like a million times. A birthday message from Sherlock that had been replayed constantly in the months after John had found out Sherlock had taken Mycroft's mission.  
  
"How was the course?"  
  
Conversation. It was a rarity in this household these days, other than to discuss Emily or the possibility of divorce. Forcing a smile, Mary turned back to look at her husband, before moving to take hold of her daughter.  
  
"Great. It was great. Just waiting to find out if I can begin the real thing in September." She pressed a kiss to Emily's cheek, eliciting a squeal from her daughter. "Well, I think it's your bed time, Missy. Has Daddy been keeping you up late while I've been gone?"  
  
John opened his mouth to protest, standing and holding out his hands. "I'll take her," he offered, smiling faintly. "You'll need your rest." As Mary pressed a kiss to Emily's cheek, he took hold of their daughter, whispering a goodnight on her behalf as he took her off to bed. 

* * *

"Pregnant?" Greg stared at Molly in disbelief, stumbling backwards as he attempted to process the news. "But... The pill. You're on the pill. Regular as clockwork."  
  
Molly sat up on the sofa, nodding as she buried her face in her hands. "I also had food poisoning a few weeks ago. I... We...." As she stumbled for her words, Greg reached out and placed a hand on her forearm, unsure whether he was trying to reassure himself or her.  
  
"I don't know if I want this baby, Greg," she continued, dragging her hands down her face and looking straight past him. "And it's selfish of me, because we can afford it. And you... You and Eve had all those problems trying to conceive. And now, I've done that, and I'm..."  
  
With that, Greg moved to sit next to Molly, pulling her closer to him. "And if you don't want this baby, then that's what matters, Molly," he whispered into her hair, his lips pressed against her scalp. He exhaled as he felt Molly's hand against his chest, the slightest reassurance that everything would work out for them eventually.  
  
"I just... I don't want to lose my career. And what if... I was only ten when my dad died, Greg. What if I die young, like him? Or what if... Jim... What if something like that happens again?" Greg responded with a hand smoothing over her hair, pulling her closer still.  
  
"Jim... Well. We know he's dead this time. No-one is going to hurt you, Molly. As for dying young." He shrugged, searching for the reassurance she needed, but instead fell into silence. "Just. Molly. Whatever you want to do about this, whatever you decide, I'm behind your decision. No ifs, no buts."  
  
Looking up at him with tear stained eyes, Molly smiled, reaching up to gently kiss at his lips, her eyes closing as she whispered thanks against his mouth. 

* * *

  
"So. Where were you really?"  
  
Mary lowered her wine glass, looking up at her husband. "Liverpool. Midwife introductory course. We've been over this, John." She was greeted with a shake of his head, and she could feel her own stomach knotting.  
  
"You weren't though, were you? Because I phoned the hotel, Mary. Besides. Mycroft makes a terrible babysitter. Couldn't get hold of Molly to take over before I got back."  
  
"I... John. Look..."  
  
"Did he have you kill for him? What was your price, Mary? I doubt it was 'just find me a babysitter.' So what was..."  
  
"It wasn't like that!" Her fists balled in her lap, shaking as she thought back to the state she'd found Sherlock, fighting back the urge to tell John before Mycroft could.  
  
"I thought we were leaving fucking AGRA, whoever the hell that is, behind."  
  
Mary's gaze dropped to the floor, a lump rising in her throat as she heard his footsteps near, knowing that the moment she looked at him, the truth would come spilling out.  
  
"It is difficult enough to cope with the fact my best friend is probably dead, but I'd rather not have to face burying you, too, because you just can't leave that behind."  
  
"He's not dead."  
  
"Do you not think I've been through enou..."  
  
"He's not dead, John!"  
  
A stunned silence fell over the room as John looked down at her, trying to understand any word that had just fell from her lips.  
  
"I... Mycroft sent me to retrieve him," Mary explained, standing to face John. "He's... Mycroft's coming to explain tomorrow, but he's in the ICU. Septic shock, multiple injuries, but he'll... He's Sherlock, John. He'll survive."  
  
A shorter silence passed, before John moved closer, taking Mary's face in his hands and kissing her cheek. As he felt her smile beneath his kiss, he moved to take her mouth in a hungry kiss, pushing her towards the wall as her hands tangled in his hair.  
  
"You... Brought him back," he reiterated, pulling back to look at her, his smile widening as Mary nodded. Another hungry kiss, and his hands slid under her shirt, pulling her closer as if, for the first time in over a year, the woman stood in front of him was the woman he had vowed to love for the rest of his life.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary comes to terms with reality, and whilst John visits Sherlock in hospital, life changing decisions are being made.

As Mary woke the next morning, the bed beside her was empty, like it had been for months before. Running a hand over John's pillow, she sighed, wondering just how long he'd waited to leave, whether he'd even made it the full hour. The knot of anger that pitted in her stomach made her feel uneasy, and reaching for her dressing gown, she sat on the edge of the bed, and tightened the fabric around herself before burying her face in her hands.   
  
Minutes passed, and eventually Mary was dragged out of her sorrow by the sound of Emily gurgling in the next room, followed by the incoherent babbles that now filled Mary's days. As the babbling got louder, more insistent, Mary headed through to her room, leaning against the doorframe as she watched Emily playing with her feet. As Emily eventually spotted her, she squealed in delight, sitting up in her cot, before making a clumsy attempt at standing. Mary smiled sadly at the efforts, crossing over to the cot.   
  
"Looks like it was Daddy's turn to leave this time," Mary whispered, sliding her hands around Emily's torso, and lifting her into the air, before bringing a giggling infant down for a kiss. Balancing Emily on her hip, she reached for her daughter's comforter, before heading downstairs, wondering just how much caffeine she'd need to get through today alone.   
Passing the living room, she took a quick glance inside, the spare duvet thrown over the back of the sofa as evidence of John's abandonment. Had it not been for the small hand patting at her cheek, she feared she may have fallen apart there and then.   
  
"How about weetabix, hm?" she asked, turning her back on the room as she tickled Emily's stomach, jiggling her daughter slightly as they headed into the kitchen, sliding Emily into the highchair. And as she pulled Emily's bowl from the drainer, a brown manilla envelope caught her eye. One which was topped with John's wedding ring. 

* * *

  
"So nice of you to join us, John." Mycroft stood outside the hospital, an umbrella shading him from the storm. His voice was intoned with more sarcasm than usual, his expression deadpan.   
  
"Look. I'm here for him. Not for the usual Holmes sarcasm," John retorted, hoping the tremor in his left hand might, just this once, go unnoticed. No such luck, he noted, as Mycroft's gaze dropped to his hands, before turning towards the hospital and closing the umbrella.   
  
"I suppose it goes without saying that he is in a poor condition. I expect Mary's told you..."   
  
"I didn't want to hear it from Mary." John's voice was clipped, his chin lifting defiantly as he followed Mycroft through the hospital.   
  
"Yes. Of course. No wonder you're going through with the divorce. Comm..."   
  
"I swear to god, Mycroft. Unless you want the closest bed to Sherlock, you better shut up."   
  
Silence filled the corridor, interrupted only by passing visitors, and as they headed towards the ICU, John could feel his chest tightening with concern.   
  
"Look. Mycroft." He stopped in his tracks, grabbing Mycroft's sleeve to bring the elder Holmes to a halt. "I just... Look. Tell me what I'm going to be walking in on? Please."   
Mycroft turned his head to look at John for a split second, tugging his sleeve free. "As I said, John. He's in a poor condition."  
  
"Yeah. Elaborate on that, a little."   
  
He could have sworn he saw the slightest hint of concern on Mycroft's face, the slightest softening of his features, disappearing as quickly as it appeared.   
  
"He is suffering from multiple broken bones, which have been reset with surgery where possible. He has, as a result of several weeks of injuries being inflicted upon him, developed septic shock and is being kept in a medically induced coma to reduce the risk of long term brain damage." Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw the shake in John's resolve as the doctor seemed to lose control of his legs, staggering slightly. "Do pull yourself together, John," he muttered, not waiting for John as he continued towards Sherlock's room.   
  
Resting against the wall, John buried his head in his hands, trying to clear his mind. 60%. That was the average mortality rate for those with septic shock. He knew the odds, the treatment, and he knew just what was waiting for him in Sherlock's room.   
  
"Now's not the time to make this about you, John," Mycroft called back towards him, and John lifted his head, moving to the room Mycroft stood outside.   
  
"Look. Has the doctor... Have they detected any..."   
  
"As of yet? They haven't had to remove anything, John, if that's what you're asking."   
  
John's fists clenched and unclenched repeatedly by his side as he stared at the door, sucking in a deep breath before stepping into the room.   
  
As his gaze fell upon the plethora of tubes that connected themselves to Sherlock, John let out a sob, quickly muffled by his hand clamping over his mouth. He stood by the end of the bed, watching the bruised face of Sherlock Holmes, his own heart rate accelerating as he reached for the hand that lay limp on the bed.   
  
"Jesus, Sherlock. What did they do to you?" 

* * *

  
She hadn't slept. That was clear to Greg as he laid a bowl of cereal on the coffee table in front of Molly and pressed a kiss to her forehead. Not lifting her attention from the laptop, she hummed in response, quickly shutting down the browser.   
  
"You really should be getting some rest," he said, as he sat beside her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders as he sipped at his coffee. Leaning against him, Molly carried on typing, prompting Greg to take a quick glance at the screen. "What are you doing?"   
  
"Budget."   
  
"What? Why?"   
  
Molly sighed, closing the laptop and placing it on the floor. "Look. Greg. If we decide to keep this baby, I need to know we can afford it." She turned to look up at Greg, her expression still full of worry. "I mean, it's not just... Children are expensive, Greg. And I don't want to risk one of us getting ill, or worse, and us spending the rest of our lives worrying about every penny."   
  
Smiling softly, Greg took her hand in his. "Look. If one of us does get ill, we'll deal with it then, OK? Worst case scenario, I have life insurance. I mean, OK, we can plan, but stop..."   
Molly nodded, closing her eyes and sighing. "I've... Greg, I've come to a decision." She swallowed, lifting her head slightly as she braced herself. "I want to keep the baby."   
  
Greg stared at her, disbelief evident on his face, and Molly's heart sank.   
  
"I mean, if you don't want the baby, that's fine, and we'll split up, but we'll stay friends. At least I hope we can stay friends. But I'm keeping it, and I'm... I've spent the past..."   
  
"Molly, stop." Greg raised both hands to silence her, before a grin spread over his face. "You mean I'm going to be a..." He looked at her stomach, the grin spreading further, before looking up at Molly and hugging her tightly. "I... God, you know that child is going to be the most loved child ever, right?"   
  
Molly felt the tension subsiding, and relaxed into Greg's hold, wrapping her arms around him as she exhaled. "I know. I know." 

* * *

  
The black curls in his office stopped Mycroft in his tracks.   
  
"I know you're hiding something about Mrs Watson, Mycroft." Sally was leafing through his newspaper, still not looking up at Mycroft. "See, we've been doing our research. We also know she shot Sherlock."   
  
Resting his umbrella against the wall, Mycroft stepped closer to the detective sergeant, his posture stiff as he prepared himself for Sally's probing. "A trivial matter. He survived, I believe." If he noticed how Sally tensed at his words, he didn't mention it, instead moving to his desk and sitting, choosing instead to turn his attention to the reams of paperwork.   
  
"Sur... Mycroft, he flatlined!" Sally's voice echoed around the room, her hands slamming down on the desk. "Why the hell would you just let this one go?"   
  
"Mrs Watson possessed a certain utility to myself."   
  
"Utility. You're unbelievable. Look, I need to know what I'm dealing with if I'm going to be arresting her."   
  
Mycroft looked up at Sally, eyes narrowed. "You shall not be arresting her yet. Is that understood?"   
  
Shaking her head, Sally began pacing the room. "Right. Utility. What the hell did she do to make herself so useful to you, of all people? The only people you consider 'useful' are the ones you can manipulate, or the ones who keep Sherlock off the drugs."   
  
Mycroft reached for the pen on his desk, beginning to write. "It's not of relevance, Ms Donovan."   
  
"What, is she some sort of secret agent?" Sally scoffed, folding her arms as she waited for an answer, before resigning herself to the fact it would never come. "This isn't finished with, Mycroft," she hissed, leaving the room with the door slamming behind her.   
  
Sitting in silence, Mycroft tented his fingers, deep in thought. Mary had already proven her loyalties could be bought with the right price. He would need to deal with the uncontrollable force that was Mary Watson sooner or later. But for now... Reaching for the phone, he punched in Greg's number, and couldn't avoid the smirk that curled onto his lips at the slightly post-coital voice that answered the phone.   
  
"I do hope I'm not interrupting anything, Gregory. But you and Ms Hooper may be pleased to know that Sherlock is back."


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary and John come to an understanding, whilst a familiar face makes a return.

"I just wanted you to know that I'm sorry for how things turned out."  
  
Mary frowned, looking up at John as she finally noticed his presence. Closing her book, she slipped it into her bag and folded her arms as she awaited an explanation. John smiled, a smile that never quite reached the corners of his eyes, as he moved to the chair on the other side of Sherlock's bed.  
  
"Where's Emily?"  
  
"Left her with Mycro..." A weak attempt at humour that came interrupted with his estranged wife's disapproval.  
  
"John."  
  
A sigh left John's lips as he sunk into the armchair, his thumb and forefinger against his brow. "Fine. She's with Molly." He watched the rise and fall of Sherlock's chest, before reaching out and taking the detective's hand, his thumb loosely brushing over his knuckles. "You not woken up yet? Christ, you like to keep us waiting, don't you."  
Across the room, Mary pursed her lips, wondering just how welcomed she was in the same room, before reaching for her bag. "I should get going," she started, draping the strap over her shoulder. "Leave you two to some peace." She smiled in John's direction, standing and heading for the door  
  
"Don't."  
  
Mary stopped, adjusting her bag as she turned to look at John. His gaze hadn't left the once great detective who, due to the magical shrinking properties that seemed to accompany hospital beds and wires, appeared half his usual side.  
  
"I'm tired of fighting, Mary," he continued, finally lifting his chin to look at his wife, noting the bags under her eyes. He didn't have to be an expert in deduction to know that this meant she was no longer sleeping any more than an hour or two a night. Well, that made two of them.  
  
"And you think I'm not?"  
  
"Will you just listen for once?"  
  
Mary exhaled, dropping her bag to the floor, and moving to sit beside John. Folding her hands in her lap, she watched the monitor, hir fingers grasping at her skirt for comfort.  
  
"What I'm trying to say," John started, pausing to clear his throat. "What I'm trying to say is that I still want the divorce. I'm never going to be able to trust you completely after what happened. I've tried. It's just not working."  
  
Mary closed her eyes, silent as a tear fell down her cheek, and for a moment, John hated his inability to shake the sound of Sherlock flatlining from his mind. He hated how his nightmares now showed Sherlock falling into his arms, slowly bleeding out. And he hated how, eighteen months after Mary had stopped the nightmare, this monster they called AGRA had started them again. And how AGRA and Mary were one and the same. But if he thought he was alone in hating these facts, Mary thought, then he was mistaken. She had strived for redemption, but even that had only come through lying to John once more.  
  
"I..." John's voice was choked now, and Mary looked up at him to catch sight of the tears just as he forced them back. "I want us to stay friends, though, Mary. Not just for Emily's sake. I mean, I haven't been in love with you for a long time. I don't think our marriage can survive that. But that doesn't mean I've ever stopped caring about you."  
  
Hesitantly, Mary reached out and squeezed his hand, her thumb briefly brushing over the finger that had once been decorated by a ring and the promises that came with it. She forced a small smile, before nodding slightly. "I know," she whispered, her voice surprisingly steady. "Just promise me that Emily will always come first."  
  
A fleeting look of offence flickered across John's face, before he nodded, squeezing her hand in response. "You really don't need to question that." Licking at his lips, he settled back in the armchair, his thumb brushing over Sherlock's knuckles in an attempt to soothe himself. "So. What were you reading to him?"  
  
Mary stood, pulling an old hardback book out of her bag, handing it over to John with a smile. "Peter Pan. Mycroft said it used to be one of his favourites." Watching as John turned to where she'd left off, Mary closed her bag and left the hospital room, and as she reached the lift, tried her hardest to avoid the sobs that rattled through her as she revisited John's words.  
  


* * *

  
"And how are you finding the community?" Mycroft's examination of the living room was interrupted as he spotted a cobweb in the corner of the room. He made a mental note to ensure the house received a thorough clean after the purchase went through.  
  
"It's friendly enough," the elderly gentleman explained, his cane clicking against the hardwood floor as he moved towards the porch. "Jill and Tony next door have been absolute saints since Louise died. It's a shame to be leaving this place behind."  
  
Sentiment, Mycroft thought, almost bitterly, as his attention was stolen by a photo of the current homeowner; Mr Richards, 82. Widower. Yet the photo stood at almost sixty years old, Mr Richards' arm flanked by a bride, one Mycroft could only presume to be Louise. "But then I suppose it's a necessity. With the size, and the impracticalities of maintaining such a house," Mycroft murmured, looking around the room once more.  
  
"Too big a house for little old me," Mr Richards chuckled quietly, pulling back the curtains. "But I suppose it would make you and your wife very happy."  
"I'm not buying the house for me," Mycroft corrected, still not quite making eye contact with the elderly gentleman. "It's for a friend." He paused, moving out towards the hallway as he dialled Lady Smallwood's number. "Now, you mentioned a panic room," he said, as Lady Smallwood's phone continued to ring.  
  
"Ah. Yes. There's two. This way."  
  
Mycroft hung back as the man headed towards the stairs, finding himself greeted with his colleague's voice. "It's time, Sylvia. Do it. Now." 

* * *

  
The first thing he noticed as he fought to drag himself further away from the coma was the feeding tube, and how, good god, he wanted it gone. Half consciously, Sherlock made an attempt to move it, trying to take in the sight of the room around him. But movement seemed impossible, and his arms heavier than before. They may not have killed him, but even in his sedated state, Sherlock could feel that they'd come close.  
  
Turning his head towards that ever so slightly familiar breathing, he caught sight of a vaguely John-sized form, sleeping in the armchair by his bed. As his eyes readjusted, he turned his head back towards the ceiling, desperately trying to spit out the feeding tube. Mary. He could just remember Mary's voice. Did John know she'd saved him?  
  
Minutes passed, and Sherlock lay in silence until the sound of another doctor's footsteps approached. The sound of papers being rustled, before the face came into focus. "Welcome back, Mr Holmes," the doctor smiled, and from John's direction, Sherlock could hear his friend stirring. Oh, how Sherlock wanted to bat this imbecile out of the way, but that required more effort than he was capable of. He listened as the doctor explained where he was, and although he tried to focus, the words descended into a meaningless buzz, as Sherlock drifted back to sleep once more.  
  
As the doctor left, John watched Sherlock for a few minutes more, smiling faintly as he brushed the detective's curls back from his forehead. "Won't be long now, Sherlock," he whispered, his hand stopping to cup his friend's cheek. "Won't be long at all."


	6. Chapter 6

“For Christ’s sake, I’ve known trained assassins who were more docile than you!”

There was something almost relieving, Molly decided, about hearing Sherlock’s usual brand of charm as she approached his room. Two weeks had passed since he had begun to regain consciousness, and in the past 72 hours, various nurses and doctors had taken to labelling him as ‘difficult’. ‘Obviously traumatised’. Or, in the case of Doctor Watson, ‘his usual dickhead self’.

As the nurse excused herself, Molly stepped into the room, resting a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Why don’t we take you for a walk, hm?”

“I’m not a child, Molly. I don’t need coddling.”

Molly’s response came by the movement of the wheelchair, pushing Sherlock towards the doorway, an irritated grunt of protest as he realised arguing was pointless. As tempting as kicking and screaming was in that moment, along with insinuations that his mind was rotting within these four walls, he opted for a stoic silence, refusing to even acknowledge Molly’s attempts at conversation.

As she wheeled him into the courtyard, Sherlock stared blankly at the table, desperate to avoid the petty small talk he hated, his shoulders heaving as he waited for Molly to return with drinks. Even this evoked the dependency he couldn’t bear, having to comply to the control of others in order to drink, to eat. To survive. He tried to ignore the sound of Molly setting the tray down, wondering if he tried hard enough he could will himself back to 2010. A time everything had been different. Happy.

As Molly lifted his glass for him, Sherlock sighed, turning his head to one side. Is this what his rejections had come down to? Verbalisms and turning away? “I told you, Molly,” he hissed, his voice lowered with an underlying anger. “I don’t need bloody infantilising. I don’t need this bloody hospital, and I most certainly don’t need you.” The words tripped, careless, unfeeling, and as they spilled from his lips, but all the same, he regretted them as he watched the crumpling of Molly’s face, watching as the force he’d come to know as Molly Hooper stood, straightening her skirt as she fought back an angry outburst of tears. 

  
He waited for her righteous anger, an outpouring of words that he knew he deserved. A firm hand across his cheek. Anything to make him feel alive. Pain. He closed his eyes, praying Molly would be that one person to give him what he needed. The one person who wouldn’t let him down. But instead of a slap across the face, a tirade of insults, the sting came in the sound of brogues against the pavement, leading Molly away from him.

* * *

At some point, they had learnt to exist alongside each other. And within existing in each other’s space, John had found that they’d fallen into a routine.

At 6:30am, John would find himself woken as the shower turned on, sometimes remembering how he used to join Mary under the warm water. As the memories washed over him, he turned onto his stomach, sliding his hand under the waistband of his pyjamas, his eyes closed as he tried to hold onto the memories of just how she felt.

6:47, and the sound of the hairdryer accompanied the distortion of Mary’s face, the gun appearing in her hand as she pressed it to John’s temple. Snapping his hand back from his cock, he gasped, sitting up as he tried to shake the image from his mind. He remembered Sherlock’s words after Baskerville, of how the fog had fooled him into seeing Moriarty, and as he reached for his water, he wondered if somehow he was experiencing the same phenomena, caused by something else.

Somewhere in the past six weeks, Emily had become a trophy of sorts, a reward for surviving the night. Sometimes Mary would appear downstairs, Emily in arms, as if it was her prize for surviving another night alone, another night reminded of how John no longer wanted her. It was that subtle taunting.  _When I leave, she’ll be leaving with me._ That’s how these things work. She never needed to speak those words, but they lingered between them as they sipped their coffees, making small talk.

Other mornings, John would beat Mary to Emily’s cot, and he’d spend those precious moments, getting her dressed and ready for the day. He’d count her fingers, as if somehow he’d find clues as to how he could reduce the damage that would inevitably come.

This morning, however, the sound of the shower never came. Instead, John found himself startled awake by the sound of the knocker, Mary’s footsteps on the stairs.

“Christ, I’ve not even had a shower yet,” she muttered, and as John headed into Emily’s room, plucking her out of the cot as she protested her rude awakening, he caught sight of a blue flash that filled the room. Voices from downstairs.

“Mary Watson, I’m arresting you on suspicion of the attempted murder of Sherlock Holmes.” 

Clutching Emily to his chest, John rushed downstairs, watching as Mary was pressed against the wall and cuffed by an officer he’d seen a handful of times before. No longer able to tell if the thudding in his chest was his own heart, or that he’d received that afternoon in that church.   
  
_“I, Mary Morstan, give you my heart…”_

He wanted to protest, tell them they had this wrong. But as he neared the scene, he saw a flash of the woman that lay behind Mary’s mask; the cold, calculated woman he’d seen once before in Baker Street. That wasn’t fear across her face. That was a silent rage and a dawning realisation. The realisation that the past year had been leading up to this.

“You’ve got this wrong,” John whispered, his voice feeble as he forced himself to believe what he was saying. But the truth… Oh, he had been there for that revelation, and memories of feeling Sherlock’s pulse ebb away flooded back to him, causing him to pull Emily slightly closer. But this wasn’t Sherlock’s doing. This, John told himself in silence as he fought for the words he needed, wasn’t what Sherlock wanted.

_She didn’t kill him. She brought him back to me._

“John? Is there someone we can call?” He watched as Mary was led away, praying she’d show some fight. As she was lowered into the car, he turned to look at Sally, his eyes wide with panic. 

“What the hell have you done?”


	7. Chapter 7

As she watched Dimmock hit the record button, Mary became vaguely aware of the fact he was speaking. Reading out the caution. How had it come to this, she wondered, her wrists still aching from where the handcuffs had been clapped on her.  She considered the possibilities – perhaps this had been Sherlock’s plan all along. Perhaps John had decided he could no longer live with what she’d done. Burying her head in her hands, she tried to pinpoint a moment from either of them that would have suggested they’d planned for this to happen.

But she had seen the expression on John’s face in the hallway. The torment as he tried to grapple with the situation, keeping Emily’s face shielded from the scene in front of them. Had he played any part in this, he wouldn’t have insisted that they had it wrong. He wouldn’t have sounded so choked as they led her away, their daughter crying in his arms as she picked up on John’s obvious distress.

“The time is 7:22 am and…”

“Her rabbit fell under the cot. Someone needs to tell John. She won’t settle otherwise.” She’d checked on Emily before her shower, Flopsy – Emily’s best friend – laid under the cot, the dress rolled up, Emily’s hand thrust through the bars, evidence of a sleep induced wrestle to retrieve the toy. Dimmock’s brow crumpled in response, before he shook his head quickly, bringing himself back to focus on the interview at hand.

“The time is 7:22… 7:23 am, and it is Friday the 29th September. If you could state your name for the tape.”

Mary stared at the tape recorder, her shoulders sagged as she wondered just when she’d see Emily again, when she’d see John. This would be the truth, and the whole truth. After all, it was time to put things right, even if it meant she’d miss the birthdays, every Christmas, Emily’s first steps. It was time to put Mary Morstan away for long enough to get through this interview.

“Amelia Genevieve Rose Austin.”

* * *

“Is this your doing?”

Sherlock looked up from his book, over at where John stood in the doorway, Emily in his arms.

“John?”

“Did you call the police and tell them what Mary did?”

Sherlock stared at him, trying to put together John’s words to work out just what he was accusing him of. Betraying Mary, it seemed. Betraying the woman who had saved him.

“Why would I call the pol…”

“Well someone did!” As John shouted at Sherlock, Emily squirmed, her face crumpling as she began to cry.

“You’re upsetting Emily, John.” Sherlock wheeled over, his movements still clumsy as he tried to adjust to having control of his wheelchair. Emily twisted in John’s arms, holding her arms out for Sherlock – the calmer voice in the room.

John felt his daughter pull away from him and his own expression took on a look of despair, handing Emily down to Sherlock. Walking over to the window, he folded his arms, watching out over the courtyard. He wondered at what point it would be considered fine for him to fall apart and crumple into a sobbing heap on the floor.

“They arrested her for attempted murder this morning,”

Sherlock jiggled Emily on his lap, causing her to giggle, her earlier distress forgotten as she reached for his hair. “John, I swear, I would never betray any of you like that.” A finger pushed into his mouth stopped him speaking for the few seconds it took him to navigate Emily’s hand away from his face. “Although I can see how you’d consider it the logical conclusion.” He shrugged slightly, booping Emily’s nose.

“Right. So Scotland Yard just suddenly came to the conclusion my wife has the skillset needed to break into Magnussen’s office, hold him at gunpoint, then shoot you.”

“Unlikely. Granted, their competency seems to have improved…”

“Sherlock, I swear to god, now is not the time for your smart-arse remarks.”

“So instead you intend to mope from now until her trial? Or do you intend to drag it out until she’s released. If she’s released.”

John hung his head, his shoulders heaving once more. “What do I do, Sherlock?”

The silence hung between them, uncomfortable and punctuated only by Emily’s gurgles and coos, until finally Sherlock spoke. “You have me discharged, take me to Greg’s, and then you take Emily and you go home. I presume you know where your gun is.”

“Right. Taking on this case, then?”

“Mhmm. And you’re not to leave your house, unless I send…”

“You are not cutting me out of this! If something is going on with my wife, then I…”

“What? Intend to get yourself killed protecting her? I’m sure Emily would be extremely grateful for that.”

John’s nostrils flared, the angry smile Sherlock was so familiar with slowly appearing. “Right. Lot of use you’re going to be in that bloody thing.” Walking past Sherlock, he picked up Emily and left the room, not stopping to say so much as a goodbye. 

Newly abandoned, Sherlock looked down at his latest confinement, a look of disgust as he cursed what looked to be a permanent prison. He had every intention of proving the doctors wrong, but not before he could help Mary.

* * *

 

Greg leant against the doorway, arms folded, as he wondered if Sherlock ever listened to the advice given to him. But it seemed that the on-duty doctor’s attempts to tell Sherlock that leaving the hospital was a bad idea were falling on deaf ears. Watching as Sherlock signed his name across the form, he pushed himself upright.

“You’re forgetting something, Sherlock.”

“And what’s that?”

“You live alone, on a first floor flat. What, you expect Mrs Hudson to help you in and out of that damn thing?”

“Not in the slightest, but that’s hardly my priority right now.” He looked up at the doctor, the irritation that he was still there clear. “Don’t you have other patients to see to?”

Greg sighed, passing Sherlock his coat, before helping him stand long enough to pull it on. With Sherlock repositioned in the wheelchair, he took hold of the handles, steering Sherlock through the corridors.

“So. You’ve got a plan, then.”  
  
“Mhmm. You’re going to find out just where Donovan and Dimmock got their information.”

“Yeah. And you?”

“Paying my brother a visit.” 

“Why are you so set on protecting her, Sherlock?” Greg fished into his pockets for his keys as they were met with the cooler air of the London morning. “I mean, she did shoot you.” 

“Mhmm. Then saved me from certain death. There’s also the fact that this heavily involves John’s daughter, and on occasion, people do deserve second chances, don’t you think?”

Greg didn’t answer, unlocking the door to his car. As he turned to help Sherlock into the passenger seat, he caught an unfamiliar expression on Sherlock’s face. Something pained, something conflicted. “Sherlock?” 

Sherlock looked up at him, trying to work out where the concern had come from, before shaking his head and sneering. “Well? Do hurry up, Greg. We both have things to do.”

* * *

As Emily slept in her pushchair, John paced the living room, his gun in hand. Sherlock’s words had implied he thought Mary was in danger – that the danger extended to John and Emily, but now, John had no idea who or where that danger was coming from.

He remembered the fight back in Baker Street, his words as the truth about Mary’s past became common knowledge to all in that room. How simple, he wondered, would it have been to walk away. To turn Mary in himself. After all, their marriage had brought nothing but grief.

Grief, and Emily, he reminded himself as a small snore reminded him of her presence.

Sherlock had talked as if he wasn’t confined to that damn chair, the evidence of how Mary had saved him. The evidence, John suspected, of how he’d driven Sherlock away in the first place. John placed his fingers to his lips, remembering how Sherlock’s had felt there just eight months before. How Sherlock had, it transpired, left the day after without so much as a farewell.

* * *

“You know, I really thought your brother’s office would be a bit harder to break in to.”

 “I would have thought you’d be harder to talk into this whole breaking and entering thing,”

As Greg wheeled Sherlock over to the desk, he looked around the room, as if he was expecting Mycroft to jump out from a crevice without warning. Sherlock pulled open the drawer on the desk, shuffling through unimportant papers and files.

 “Remind me why we’re here?” Greg asked, flicking aimlessly through a pile of magazines, replacing each one as he finished.

“Because the fact Mary’s been arrested means that someone has let your colleagues know she shot me in the first place. Now, there’s a handful of possible suspects on that matter, but given John’s distress, he’s been eliminated, and given that you wouldn’t go so far as to distance yourself from her arrest you’ve further been discounted. Magnussen’s dead, you’re welcome, and that leaves Janine and Mycroft…”

“Janine could have just told all.”

“Please. The woman’s a born actress with an affinity for secret keeping. Needed to be to work for Magnussen.” Sherlock shrugged, pulling open the second drawer.

“If that’s the case, then,” Greg asked dropping a piece of paper onto the desk, “Just why does your brother have her statement, identifying Mary as the shooter? In fact, why does he have it at all?”

* * *

Dimmock returned to the cell, his hands clenched by his side as he pushed the door open. The case, as far as he was concerned, had been his. The confession had been long, arduous, but it was theirs all the same.

 Unlocking Mary’s handcuffs, he fought back the urge to ask why a mass murderer – an assassin, as she called herself – had the government wrapped around her little finger.

 But the presence of Mycroft Holmes, lingering in the doorway with his hawk like glare, put an end to any questions and pushed all the comments out of play. Instead, he watched as Mary stood and headed for the door.

 “I’ll take the tapes too, Detective Inspector.” Mycroft’s expectant hand was held out, his voice condescending in a way that only added to Dimmock’s irritation. “You’ve done enough damage after all.”

 


	8. Chapter 8

There was a defiance that surrounded Mary, Mycroft found, that had grown during her friendship with Sherlock and strengthened through the friction between herself and John. Even now, as she sat with her hands curled around the mug, Mycroft could see the remnants of the assassin she had once been – flighty, sharp and never missing a beat. It could be argued that she was indeed on par with Sherlock; she’d certainly managed to keep her secrets for long enough, even after Magnussen had been dealt with, and even after she had laid Moriarty out with a single, well-calculated shot. 

“This isn’t just Sally finding out, is it?” Mary asked, her voice so quiet that Mycroft found himself wondering if she had really spoken at all. As he turned to look at her, her head was still bowed, her shoulders slumped, and he knew that the end was in sight. This was no longer Mary, with all her quiet confidence that she could find her way out of whatever she faced, and this was not the dynamic and resourceful ‘AGRA’, famed for knowing how to survive, no matter the odds. This, Mycroft told himself, as he sat opposite her, was someone new. Survival tactics.

When Sherlock was seven, a caterpillar had cocooned itself on a patio plant, and for two weeks, he had rushed outside at the crack of dawn, hoping that he hadn’t missed the moment the caterpillar would emerge, changed and unrecognisable. But for all Sherlock’s determination, for the instructions he handed family members to not disturb the plant, he returned from school one day to find an empty shell, the cocoon newly evacuated, and Mycroft had seen the disappointment fly across his features and for four days, Sherlock locked himself away in his room, convinced that he had failed. This, Mycroft told himself as he tented his fingers, his lips pressed to his index fingers, would be the butterfly saga, all over again.

“You were running from James Moriarty this whole time. But killing him was never going to save you.  I’m sorry, Amelia. They’ve found you.”

* * *

John woke to empty arms and the sound of voices in the kitchen. Emily’s blanket lay draped over his stomach, and as John realised his daughter was somewhere other than where she had fallen asleep, he tugged his gun from the sofa, his heart pounding against his chest. 

Working with Sherlock had changed how he moved. First, he had lost the limp. And with time, he had slowly regained the stealth he had been famed for during his army days. It was with this stealth he made his way to the kitchen, almost silent, his gun gripped tightly in his hand as he prepared himself for whoever was behind that door –presumably with Emily. But as he stood outside the door, a voice he recognised hit him, and John’s hand dropped to his side, sighing in relief.

Pushing the door open, John strode over to Sherlock, taking his daughter from his arms with a steely glare. He lifted his head to look at Greg as he moved to the kitchen table, sitting with Emily on his lap, his grip tighter than before as he dropped his gun into his jacket pocket.

“You can both go. Now,” he hissed, his teeth gritted as he tried to ignore Emily’s protests. He was greeted with silence, and the sight of Greg leaning back against the counter, his arms folded in a silent defiance.

“John. Mary’s in danger,” Sherlock started, and John wondered, for a brief moment, if Sherlock had been replaced with a small, scared child. It most certainly sounded that way, especially with the slight quiver that laced through his words. “She’s in danger, and that means you are too. They’ll come here, John. Looking for her. And to them, you and Emily are merely collateral.”

John waited for more words to follow, but instead caught how Sherlock’s gaze had softened, how he looked to be in more pain than ever before. He waited for a solution, an answer that he knew Sherlock had, but found himself watching instead as Sherlock’s jaw clenched. Fear.

“Well, that’s settled then,” John whispered, looking down at Emily. She carried on grizzling, her discomfort from the atmosphere clear for all to see. He didn’t see how Greg’s face flooded with confusion. Nor did he see how Sherlock’s hands tightened into balls as Sherlock fought back the urge to intervene, point out that whatever John was planning on doing was most likely stupidity. “I’m getting my wife, from wherever the fuck your brother has put her, and we’re leaving.”

* * *

 

They had been here before. Another empty space, another undercover goodbye. Except this time, it was John who was walking out of Sherlock’s life, and Sherlock who was trying to convince himself not to fall apart. This wasn’t the heroes ending that John deserved, nor the happy ending that both of them had once needed – John’s suitcase laid packed with only the bare essentials, Mary’s leant against it, and this was the stark reminder that their marriage was just as empty.

Three days ago, Sherlock had listened to John rage on about details of the divorce. He had searched for words to reassure John, only to find nothing when John told him he couldn’t trust Mary. Only to find nothing as he watched John fall apart in the most Watsonian fashion – not in tears, and not in sorrow - in that colourful anger that bubbled under the surface, ready to boil over at any given moment. A year since the truth had come tumbling out.

This solution would fix nothing.

As Mary approached him, Sherlock looked up at her, smiling fondly as she bent down to embrace him. The scent of her perfume was gone, replaced with something far more neutral, and Sherlock knew that in a matter of hours, the blonde hair would follow suit.

This was the death of Mary Watson, and she was taking John with her.  

This time, their farewell was silent, and Sherlock knew that this was, in part, because they had said goodbye so many times before.

Mary straightened up and squeezed Sherlock’s hand, before walking over to John and taking Emily from him. “I’ll wait in the car,” she told him, only for John to respond with a silent nod.

As Mary left, John stood in silence, watching her approach the car. He turned back to Sherlock, forcing a small smile as he folded his hands behind his back. “Well. Isn’t this usually the other way round?” As he spoke, he looked just past Sherlock, his gaze not quite meeting Sherlock’s eyes. “Usually it’s you buggering off and leaving me to it.”

Sherlock’s response came with a small nod, looking down at his hands, folded in his lap. “Yes. Well. I’m not sure I’m capable of going too far without any help,” he pointed out, looking back up with a sheepish smile.

There was a time that his quip would have brought that sound of laughter that he so cherished, but as the silence lingered between them, Sherlock realised that it was never coming. No, this was no cause for humour, and it was never going to be anything that could be brushed aside. They knew the stakes – A new life, awaiting John, Mary and Emily in Ireland, whilst Sherlock faced the prospect of wasting away back in London.  

He wanted to tell John that he didn’t need to go. That they could find a way for him to see Emily, surely, if they tried. That he didn’t need to condemn himself to a lifetime with a woman he no longer loved, just to ensure his daughter was safe. But instead, the silence was broken by John’s voice.

“I’ll… uhm… I’ll find a way to, y’know. Keep in touch.”

“No. You won’t.”

Sherlock’s objection was filled with remorse – almost bitterness – and slowly, he lifted his head, his eyes filled with that sadness that had graced their every goodbye beforehand. Silence fell once more as the truth nestled itself in between them, ready to drag John away at any given moment.

“Just be sure to look after her, John. Both of them.”

“I’m sorry, Sher…”

“Don’t.” Sherlock held up a hand, silencing John in the same way John had silenced him so many times before. This was Sherlock’s ‘timing’, Sherlock’s ‘bit not good’. And it was answered with obedience, the way Sherlock had responded to John, so many times before.

“I should get going,” John whispered at last, and Sherlock extended his hand, expecting John to return the gesture they had exchanged upon Sherlock’s exile. Instead, he was greeted with arms wrapping around his neck, John’s face buried into his shoulder as if he was embracing the memory one last time. Sherlock’s breath caught in his chest, trying to remember how to breathe as he brought his hands up to grip at John’s jacket, and for a moment, his mind slipped back to Baker Street, that one morning that had led to this. What he wouldn’t give, he thought bitterly, to go back to that morning and this time, selfishly take John, to see how different this could be.

John pulled away, not looking at Sherlock as he turned, his fists balled by his side. But as he walked away, his head bowed, Sherlock could see the slight tremor that danced through his left hand. Accepting defeat, he looked towards Greg, nodding to let him know he was ready to leave. He had no plans to stay and watch John drive out of his life – He wasn’t John, he wasn’t strong enough to do that. But as Greg took that first step, the car started, John still halfway between Sherlock and Mary – always in the middle. Sherlock watched as it accelerated, leaving John running behind it, as if he had any hope of catching it.

“Mycroft?”

There was no answer from his brother, but instead the sound of a number being dialled, before the sound of an explosion filled the room, eliciting a curse from Sherlock’s lips as he watched John freeze in his footsteps. He didn’t need to see what John could see; he already knew what horrors lay ahead of them. A car, engulfed in flames. The very car in which the Watsons were leaving to start their new life. And as John crumpled to the floor, it was clear for all to see.

John Watson’s life had ended with that car.


	9. Epilogue

_Ten years earlier._

“It’s called misdirection,” Amelia whispered, the self-assured smile that graced her lips wrapping around the rim of her wine glass. “All it takes is that split second, and you have the upper hand. And your audience…” A flourish of her hand, and she lifted her date’s watch, dangling it in front of his eyes. “…isn’t aware they’ve missed anything.” She lay the watch in front of Sebastian and placed her wine glass back on the table, leaning back as the waiter approached, her eyes crinkling in amusement as she watched Sebastian eye her suspiciously. 

“Right. So I’m going to wake up tomorrow morning to find you’ve cleared me out, am I?” he asked, leaning into the newly cleared space. His gaze dropped to the neckline of her dress, dipping just between her breasts, and for a moment he imagined having his face buried between them. Soon.   

* * *

 

After returning from the mortuary, Sherlock had sat in John’s living room, waiting patiently for any word from John. The clocks carried on ticking, as if they posed some ignorance to the tragedy that otherwise filled the room, and outside, the world – by some bizarre twist – carried on.

John laid curled up on the sofa, staring blankly at the fireplace, and in front of him, a bowl of stew remained untouched. This wasn’t Sherlock’s speciality. He didn’t know how to handle grief. He didn’t know how to navigate the storm that was mourning, or how to hold someone together when their world was falling apart.

“John.” Of course, there was no response, and Sherlock wheeled himself into John’s line of vision to check whether he was still awake. He found himself greeted with a blank stare. A John too numb with grief to speak. Reaching out, his own hand trembling slightly, he touched John’s shoulder, causing John to jump out of his trance and look up at him, his expression blank and confused.

“What are you still doing here?” John grunted, pulling away from Sherlock’s hand and sitting upright. “Haven’t you done enough?”

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, before clamping it shut, nodding silently. Yes, he thought to himself silently. This was his doing, in one way or another. But the only point up for debate was on which date he ruined all of John’s chances at happiness. November 3rd, 2013? January 29th, 2010? It wasn’t something that could be pinpointed, and all Sherlock knew was that the two men currently sitting in John’s living room – the former detective and his former blogger – seemed to be broken beyond repair.

* * *

 

“I thought, Lestrade, that I could have the Watson family out of England and into safety,” Mycroft explained, looking up at Greg from his desk. “That it didn’t work out that way is…” He paused, cycling through words as he tried to find the one most appropriate to finish off his line of thought. “Tragic.”

Greg folded his arms, leaning against the wall with an eyebrow raised. “Tragic. Yeah. That’s one word for it. Is that what you call nearly costing your brother his best friend?”

Mycroft tented his fingers, looking up at Greg with an expression that, ever so slightly, resembled Sherlock’s. That same confusion that Sherlock would display whenever his words were harsh enough to cause Molly to chastise him, or for John to shut him up with a mere word. “If you are implying, Greg, that I wanted any of this to happen… Good lord, if you are trying to blame me for the deaths of Mrs Watson and Emily, then I must inform you that you are gravely mistaken.”

“Then how the hell did… whoever the shooter was… how did they know when and where to find Mary? Sally, despite me trying to tell her to leave it, has been searching for whoever shot Sherlock for the past year. And you’re going to tell me someone picked up on a plan you’d formed less than 24 hours beforehand…”

“The wheels have been in motion for a number of weeks, now.”

“Whatever, Mycroft. Either way, these were supposed to be some of your top secret plans. And someone got hold of them? Either you have a rat, Mycroft, or…”

Mycroft sighed, dropping his gaze and reached for his pen, pressing it to the paper.

“Are you still here, Detective Inspector? I do have more important things to be doing, rather than listening to your idle chit chat.”

Greg stared at him, mouth agog as he tried to process just what Mycroft was saying. As Mycroft looked up to dismiss him again, Greg strode over to the desk, leaning over it with his palms flat on the wood, fixing his eyes directly on Mycroft’s.

“You know, I have defended your brother as they’ve called him heartless. A freak. A fake. Because, despite the front, he’s none of those things.” He paused, his left hand curling into a fist as his eyes narrowed. “But we both know that you _are_.” Pushing himself back from the desk, he turned on his heel, and headed for the door.

“Part of your problem, Lestrade, is that you pass judgement before the story has even reached the conclusion,” came Mycroft’s reply, and for a moment, Greg considered turning back to demand an explanation. Instead, he left Mycroft to his own twisted thoughts, and pulled his phone from his pocket to call John.

* * *

 

Handing the file over to Sally, Molly smiled sadly and made her way to the computer. “Sorry I couldn’t be any more help, Sergeant,” she started, shrugging off her white coat. “There wasn’t too much to work with, what with the fire damage.”

Two body bags lay on the tables either side of Sally, and Sally’s grip on the files tightened slightly. Just the photos would be horrific enough, without having to see the charred remains; one woman, 43, and one baby – seven months old. Mary may have embodied so much that Sally hated, but two innocent beings were caught up in the crossfire. John, insomuch as he had never asked for his wife to be so dangerous, so callous, so cruel. He had never intended to marry a woman who had played judge and jury with so many lives. The other innocent, a mere baby who was incapable of understanding mortality, of understanding just how her mother ended lives, whilst her father saved them and helped another man solve the stories of the mystery bodies that turned up on Molly’s tables.

But this was no mystery. A handful of witnesses had seen the car go up in flames, Mary, Emily and the driver still inside. No-one had heard the gunshots, but they’d been there all the same – evidenced by the two bullets photographed for the file. And Sally had seen how John had stared blankly at the two corpses he had been asked to identify, leaving Sherlock to make the confirmation on John’s behalf.

* * *

 

Irene’s heels clacked against the tiled floor of the Italian villa, that slow, steady rhythm that exuded her confidence. This was her territory, and she was more than willing to defend it, at any cost.

She had marked the grounds. Laid out trap after trap to catch those who wished her harm. Those who turned up with guns and threats. Those who would serve her head on a silver platter, as if it was a trophy. The Woman Who Could Not Be Beaten. They’d engrave it on a plaque, and display her head on a spike. She’d heard all the threats before.

And now the biggest threat was stood in her living room.

“Haven’t you caused enough damage?” Irene asked, her hand curled around the pistol in her bag, vainly hoping she could outwit the monster once more. After all, it had been this way once before. “Or are you not going to rest until you’ve killed me?”

“You can let go of the gun, Adler. I’m not here to kill you.”

“Then why are you here?”

The figure in front of her turned, and as Irene came face to face with her adversary, her attention was dragged down to the baby that sat behind her, drooling on a cushion that cost more than Irene cared to admit.

“Sanctuary,” whispered Mary, her jaw lifted as she watched Irene. “I mean, you could kill me, but that would just drag the focus back on you. So I think giving me what I want is your best bet. Don’t you?”


End file.
